


Cyril

by twistedrunes



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, because SK will never tell us, fanfic is for answering questions we have about canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 10:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17958503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedrunes/pseuds/twistedrunes
Summary: The story of what happens to Cyril after Tommy refuses to take him.Esme is in Margate with the children after leaving Birmingham after John's death. She spies Tommy in town and worried for her family she follows him to the beach. When Tommy leaves to tend his wounds she goes to help Alfie.





	Cyril

**Author's Note:**

> This is a thing that happened when I read this by @myultraviolenceis on Tumblr 
> 
> _I hope that in the next season of Peaky Blinders we will know what happened with Alfie’s dog…_
> 
> If I have to accept canon (much against my better judgement) I propose it went something like this…

Esme sees Tommy when he’s in Margate before meeting Alfie on the beach. She thinks he’s after her and the children so after she sends James back to the camp with the children to warn the others and she follows him. She watches the meeting between Tommy and Alfie. Watches them shoot each other, Alfie falling backwards onto the sand. She waits until Tommy staggers off, hopefully, to die.

She isn’t sure what makes her do it, walking quickly towards the man she is sure is Alfie Solomons. The man fit John’s description of him perfectly. She knew he had betrayed Tommy on more than one occasion. Maybe that was it. But, maybe it was just that she couldn’t bear the thought of him dying alone. Another victim of Tommy’s lust for power. 

As she approaches Cyril growls at her, placing himself between her and Alfie. A moan from Alfie distracts Cyril for a moment. Esme takes her chance to move quickly to Alfie and drops to her knees in the sand next to him. She quickly places her hand on Cyril’s back and whispers to him. Cyril calms instantly.

Alfie’s one good eye focuses keenly on Esme. The other, swollen shut under the blood from where the bullet had removed a sizeable portion of his cheek, scalp and ear. It’s bleeding heavily but seems to be mostly superficial.

“I’m here to help,” Esme says removing a scarf from her hair and pushing it against the wound. 

Alfie spits out slurred curses and his hand covers hers. He grunts indicating he can hold the dressing in place himself. Esme looks him over quickly, the shot is bad, but not enough to kill him immediately, the bigger concern is how much blood he’s losing.

“Can you walk?” She asks him.

“Leave me,” he replies his tongue and cheek refusing to work together properly to form the words clearly. “Let me die, in peace.” He struggles to add, breath shallow and laboured.

“You’re not going to die, well not anytime soon,” Esme tells him. 

Alfie’s good eye closes and he sighs. “Fuck.” 

Cyril lays down next to his master, enormous head resting on Alfie’s stomach. Alfie’s hand rests on his friends flank.

Esme sits back on her heels for a moment, trying to work out what the do next. “Where’s your car?” She asks.

“No car,” Alfie replies, “walked.”

“Walked?” Esme groans, her head dropping as she tries to think of another plan. 

“Not far.” Alfie says opening his eye “A hundred yards over the sand dune” he says lifting his hand from Cyril to point in the general direction. 

It takes all of Esme’s strength and the help of two strong lads who happen by to get Alfie to his house. He’s barely conscious when they get there. The doors are unlocked but there is not a soul to be found, the furniture is covered with dust sheets and all the hearths lie cold. Cyril leads them through the massive foyer to the lounge. For a brief moment, it reminds her of the house in Birmingham, cold, vast and empty without John to fill it.

With a shake of her head, she pulls herself together. Directing the young men to place Alfie on the sofa. No-one bothers to remove the covers.  He passes out immediately. Esme helps herself to the wad of cash in his pocket to buy the young men’s silence on the matter. They scurry away like field mice in the harvest.

After checking Alfie is still breathing, Esme sets about making him comfortable. Building a large fire and bringing a kettle from the kitchen to warm water. Cyril doesn’t leave Alfie’s side, pressing his nose against him occasionally when Alfie moans softly. While the water warms Esme quickly checks through the house.

Room after room is cold and muted. In what she assumes is Alfie’s bedroom she can’t help but gasp at the view, the large windows look out over the beach and ocean, stretching as far as the eye can see. The bedroom opposite looks out over the countryside and the laneway to the house. Esme pulls a bright shawl from around her shoulders and hangs it from the window. A sign to the family when they come looking for her. On her way back to Alfie she gathers some bedclothes and washcloths from the airing cupboard.

Esme decides to wait for Alfie to wake before she attempts to clean him or dress his wounds. Simply covering him as he is in a large comforter and dragging an armchair over to him so she can hold the makeshift dressing in place to stop the flow of blood. It takes a long time but eventually the bleeding stops. While she sits next to him she can’t help but notice the rapid shallowness of his breathing or the rattle of his chest.

Alfie wakes a few hours later with another resigned “Fuck.”

Esme pours fresh tea into a cup and sits on the edge of the sofa. “Here, drink this.” She instructs holding the cup to his lips. Alfie forces his tongue between his dry cracked lips and takes a tentative sip. He gives a hum of appreciation before taking the cup from her hands. He drinks slowly, almost panting between sips. She is forced to take the cup from him quickly when he begins coughing. Blood flying from between his lips and landing on the cup and her hands.

Once he recovers Alfie rummages in his pocket and pulls out his handkerchief. Using it to wipe Esme’s hand clean.

“What’s the doctor’s number?” Esme asks him.

“No point,” Alfie says wiping the handkerchief over his mouth. “This,” he says lifting the handkerchief slightly, “isn’t from the shot,” Esme says nothing as he pauses to take a breath. “Fucking cancer.” He wheezes.

“You wanted Tommy to kill you?” Esme asks wide-eyed.

“Hmm,” Alfie grunts. “Fucker didn’t do a very good job though, did he?”

“He tends to get his brothers to do those things usually,” Esme replies bitterly. 

Alfie simply nods and sinks back against the arm of the sofa.

Esme pats his hand, “Let me get you cleaned up a bit.”

Alfie doesn’t open his eyes, simply grunting a monosyllabic “Mm” in reply.

Esme cleans Alfie’s wound, wrapping bandages he directs her too in the kitchen around his head to keep it covered. Alfie lays with his eyes closed, but Esme can tell he’s not sleeping. As she finishes there is a knock at the door. Alfie’s eye flies open.

“It’s probably just my father or one of my brothers, I put a signal out upstairs so they knew where I was and that I was here of my own free will. That I’m safe.” Esme explains quickly, placing the bloodied water bowl on the floor. 

Alfie can hear rapid conversation from the hall. Esme returns a moment later with a tall dark haired man behind her. Cyril growls and Alfie hushes him by laying his hand on his head.

“This is my brother, Vano,  he’s going to help me get you upstairs,” Esme explains.

Vano easily assists Alfie up the stairs and helps him settle on the edge of the bed. Cyril as always is faithfully at his master’s side and leaps easily up onto the bed next to him. Vano quickly builds a fire while Esme searches the cupboards for clean night clothes. Once Vano has finished the task he leaves, giving Alfie a  nod on his way out the door.  

As Esme helps Alfie undress she is struck by how small he is under the layers and layers of clothing. His skin is loose and his clothes hang off him. He seems to be literally wasting away. While she cleans the remaining sand off him, pulls a nightgown over his head and props him up on pillows in bed, she explains that her family will look after the children while she’s gone.

Alfie’s too tired and too breathless to say anything in reply. He simply watches Esme with his good eye.

Esme is struck by the look. There’s gratitude there, acceptance too and absolutely no fight left. This was a man who knew he was going to die and welcomed it. So different to the look in John’s eyes when he left her, his eyes were desperate, searching, fighting.

“Is there anything I can get you?” She asks smoothing the covers over his lap. 

“Morphine, top drawer,” Alfie instructs tilting his head towards the side table. 

Esme pulls out the bottle, reading the label and pouring out a spoonful. She holds it to Alfie’s lips and he coughs as he swallows it. She goes to return it to the drawer and Alfie shakes his head. “Two.”

“The bottle says one,” Esme says, checking the label again.

“Two,” Alfie repeats. He holds her gaze with his one eye, and Esme pours a second spoonful. Cyril creeps up the bed next to his master, giving his hand a gentle lick before settling down, pressed up against him. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Alfie asks after a moment.

“Esme, John Shelby’s wife. I mean widow.” 

Alfie nods, “The Gypsy.” Esme nods, not knowing what else to say. “Why are you here?” Alfie asks wearily.

“I saw Tommy in town, I thought he was looking for us, I followed him. I saw you shoot each other, he left, I wanted.],” Esme pauses for a moment “I don’t know.” She admits.

Alfie’s eyelid droops and he opens his mouth to say something but he’s asleep before the words can be formed. Esme stays. 

Through-out the night he wakes coughing and choking and Esme holds him, helping him stay upright and get as much air into his lungs as possible. Cyril licks Alfie’s cheeks in concern.

As the first rays of dawn spread their grey light over the room, Esme notices Alfie’s face distorted in a grimace. “You in pain?” She asks him. 

She is answered only by a groan from Alfie and a whine from Cyril.

“Your face?” She asks.

Alfie shakes his head before he is racked with another round of hacking coughing. This time a fine spray of blood rains down on the bedclothes.

Esme quickly pulls the morphine from its drawer. “Two?” she asks pouring out a spoonful.

“Three,” Alfie replies after the first spoon has slid down his gullet. 

It takes slightly longer this time for the liquid to work its magic. But Alfie is asleep when Vano arrives with supplies. He brings a cauldron of soup, some bread, rum and a venison bone for Cyril.

Later Alfie wakes and seems much restored. While he’s awake Esme gives Cyril the bone and Alfie convinces him to take it into the hall to gnaw on. Esme places a drop sheet down on the floor for him. Cyril stays in the doorway watching while he chews on the bone. Esme is able to tempt Alfie with a small amount of chicken soup. He doesn’t manage much more than a few spoonfuls of broth but smiles happily at the flavour, telling Esme to compliment the chef. After he’s eaten Esme offers more morphine and he declines, asking her to open the curtains and windows so he can hear and smell the beach and see the sunshine.

In between Alfie’s naps they talk. They compare stories of running wild in the forest as children, foraging and setting traps for game. As Alfie becomes tired Esme tells him about the children. He smiles as she tells him stories of them playing cops and peaky’s and John having to be the cop because none of the children wanted to even pretend to be a copper.

A smile tugs at the corner of Alfie’s mouth as he pats Cyril’s head. “He hates ‘em too. Can smell ‘em.” He stops to take a few breaths. “Fuckin’ handy that.” He says fondly, scratching behind Cyril’s ear.

At dusk, Esme moves to the window to close them and draw the curtains. “The cold will make it harder for you to breathe,” she reasons as she catches the look on Alfie’s face. Alfie nods in and breathes in through his nose to catch the last of the scent of the sun and sea.

As Esme draws the curtains Alfie speaks. “When I’m gone, there’s a letter on the desk in the study. It will tell you what to do.” He wheezes slowly between laboured breaths. Esme turns to face him, she considers briefly offering some kind of platitude to assure him he will be okay, but knows it will offer him no solace, he knows what’s coming and welcomes it. Esme nods in acknowledging his instruction. She comes to stand next to him and lays her hand over his and nods again.

Alfie’s eyes close for a moment as he tries to get a breath. He taps his hand against the drawer with the morphine.

“Do you want some morphine?” Esme asks.

Alfie shakes his head, “Key.”

Esme turns on the bedside lamp and looks deep in the drawer, sure enough, there’s a key at the back. She holds it up for Alfie to see. 

Alfie points to the cupboard in the corner “Safe inside.”

“Do you want what’s in there?” Esme asks.

Alfie nods.

Sure enough, there is a safe in the cupboard, Esme empties out the contents, a shoe box, photo frame and smaller jewellers bag and carries them back to the bed, setting the pile next to Alfie. He picks up a photo frame first his eyes growing soft and watery as he looks down on the picture.

Esme leans in to look too. “Your sweetheart?” she guesses looking at the picture of the beautiful young woman.

“Mm,” Alfie hums happily, his thumb stroking the frame. “Loved her.”

Esme closes her eyes and bites her lip to stop the tears. “What happened?” she manages to whisper.

“Got sick, France, no money for doctor.” Alfie pants, a single tear trickling down his cheek. He sets the photo on his lap and picks up a small jewellers bag. He removes two rings. A small thin band with a small diamond and a slightly larger, thicker gold band. He slides the larger ring onto his little finger “Mum.” he says softly rubbing his thumb over the band. He slides the second one on, it doesn’t make it as far as the second knuckle, Alfie smiles again fondly, “Eide.” 

Another round of coughing wracks Alfie’s body and his face grows red as he struggles to breathe. As it calms he pushes a shoebox towards Esme “Yours.”

Esme hesitates and Alfie pushes it closer. Esme opens the box, her eyes widening. Working in the betting shop had taught her many things one of them was how to quickly estimate how much money was in a pile. There had to be at least fifteen thousand pounds in the box, all in hundred-pound notes. “No,” she says pushing the box back.

Fatigue washes over Alfie’s face. “For the children.” he sighs. He opens his eyes and holds her gaze fiercely. She understands completely what he wants.

Esme takes the box from the bed and places it on the bedside “Thank you.”

Alfie nods and lies back, turning his head towards the photo.

“Would you like some soup?” Esme asks quietly.  

Alfie nods, “After morphine.”

Esme serves a little soup from the cauldron on the fire, setting it on the bedside as she pulls out the morphine.

“Four,” Alfie instructs.

Esme doesn’t argue and settles herself on the edge of the bed measuring out the four spoonfuls. He grimaces at the taste and Esme quickly swaps the morphine bottle for the bowl of soup. He smiles as he swallows the warm liquid. He only manages one more spoonful before shaking his head.  

Esme places the bowl back, on top of the box of money and takes his hand “You just rest now,” she tells him.

Alfie lays back, head resting on the side so he can see the photo of his sweetheart. He squeezes Esme’s hand  “Thank you.”

Esme nods and squeezes his hand in acknowledgement. She stays perched on the edge of his bed, holding his hand. His erratic breathing becomes slightly deeper and more regular, and Esme thinks he’s fallen asleep. “You will take him, won’t you?” Alfie asks jerking up and speaking the most clearly he has since Esme has met him. His eye flaring in the muted light.  

“Of course,” Esme says softly, her fingers bumping Alfie’s as she strokes Cyril’s head. “Of course.”

“Good,” Alfie says slumping back down, seemingly drained of every ounce of energy. 

Just before Dawn Cyril’s, whimpering wakes Esme. He’s nudging Alfie with his nose. Alfie’s hand feels cold in hers and as she lifts her head from the mattress and she knew he was gone. A tear rolls down her cheek as she reaches over to pat Cyril. “I’m sorry, boy.” She whispers. He, in turn, lifts his head and licks the tear from her cheek.

By mid-morning, she was gone, on her way back to her family. She followed the instructions in the letter, advising a clerk at a law office of Alfie’s passing. As they requested she waited until a young man called Ollie came to the house to make the appropriate funeral arrangements. Just before he arrived, Vano had returned with more supplies. Instead, he prepared the house for Ollie’s arrival. When Ollie arrived she took him to the body, collected the shoebox, explained to Ollie that the two additional rings and the photo were important to Alfie and perhaps they should go with him. The young man had nodded and wondered aloud what he would do with the dog currently licking his hand. Esme simply told him she would be taking care of him.

For the first few days, Cyril stayed close to Esme, lying by her feet or resting his head in her lap. He sighed a lot or wandered around as if looking for Alfie. The children loved him and when Esme explained that he had lost his person the same as they had lost their daddy and so he was sad they all spent time with him, cuddling and scratching him. They brought him things they thought might make him happy, like sticks and dead animals.

After a few weeks, he would go off with the children on their adventures, running along, herding them up when they fell behind.

Within a month the children and Cyril where inseparable. True to Alfie’s word Cyril could detect coppers and he prevented the children from being caught more than once. Esme noticed how Cyril would seek out the children if one of them was distressed or sad. Snuggling up to them while they told him their secrets and worries. In the winter he would sleep amongst the children in the caravan, keeping them warm and in the summer he would sleep outdoors with them, under the stars, keeping them safe.

Many years later when he passed, James and the younger boys built him a small caravan of his own out of timber they had ‘found’ by the river. The girls decorated it with flowers and they burnt it in a field. 

Once the caravan was properly alight, the wind picked up behind them, strong and blustery and smelling of bread and rum. 

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome feedback, reviews and constructive criticism of my work (including spelling and grammatical errors). If you would prefer to speak to me in private feel free to contact me via my Tumblr @twistedrunes. I also wholeheartedly support further transformations of my work, recordings of podfics and/or translations - please refer to the permissions in my profile for more detail.


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